The Fall-Down Artist (15 page)

Dorsey slid
in the apartment door key and worked the dead-bolt. It opened with the sound of metal sliding over metal. Carrying Gretchen's dry cleaning with both hands, Dorsey shoved the door with his shoulder and flicked on the overhead light switch with the back of his hand.

“Thought I had it right on the money,” he said over his shoulder. “I really thought I had. It only made sense for the guy in the LTD to be the cameraman's partner. But obviously he wasn't.”

“Don't be so hard on yourself.” Gretchen followed him into her apartment, carrying a brown paper grocery sack, and turned left into a compact kitchen. She emptied the sack's contents into a slender refrigerator and one of several cupboards. “A slipup is all it was. You keep them to the barest of minimums, but they will happen.” There was a touch of irritation in her voice that Dorsey could feel. “The dry cleaning goes into the bedroom closet. The right side, behind the door with the mirror.”

Dorsey hung the cleaning in the closet and picked his way across the bedroom like a broken field runner, carefully placing each foot to avoid tripping over piles of clothes and stacks of medical journals. How does she live like this? How does she avoid passing on infections during patient examinations? Thank God for rubber gloves, he thought; they were invented with her in mind. He skirted the Exercycle
near the door and walked back to the kitchen.

“Never have I seen a double surveillance,” he went on. “Two watchers from separate sources watching the same guy at the same time. Unheard of. Besides, who could've expected a bunch of out-of-work mill hands to be so organized? It's Stockman; he knows the game. He tells the priest what to do, and Jancek tells Damjani. And he sends a goon to scare me into pissing my pants. I'm dry, but it was a little rattling.”

Gretchen put her arms around his neck and softly kissed his cheek. Sliding into her thin smile, she slowly pulled back. “Just so you're all right. Now shut up about it. Drop it. Sit and have a beer. My turn to cook.”

Gretchen handed him a Rolling Rock from the refrigerator, and Dorsey settled into one of the two metal chairs that sat around the kitchen's small glass-and-chrome table. Sipping his beer and watching Gretchen take plastic containers of leftovers from the refrigerator, Dorsey cursed himself for his stupidity. Antonio warned you, he reminded himself. Said for you to watch your ass with these guys. And you didn't. You've got to keep an eye out for Damjani and his people. But my old man, he says to keep an eye out for Hickcock. Good thing you have two eyes.

There was another matter on his mind, too. Money. The old man's money offer. Sky's the limit, that's how he makes it out to be. High tech, wave of the future. Yours and Gretchen's. Even if it's only half of what he says, and he always puts in the fix to make sure that doesn't happen, the days ahead could be eighteen carat.

“Gretchen.” Dorsey swirled his beer and watched the waves through green glass. “When you're through there, when you get a second, sit down for a little while. I'd like to talk.”

After putting the lid on a saucepan with a toothpick wedged in to release steam, Gretchen poured herself a glass of white wine from a gallon jug in the refrigerator and sat across from Dorsey. “Weisswurst and kraut, sound good?
My mom sent it back with me the last time I was home. So what's on your mind?”

“First of all,” Dorsey said, “even to a dunce like me, it's obvious that when someone goes to medical school and then wades through an internship and residency, their career is pretty important to them.” He spoke deliberately, weighing each word. “The someone I'm especially interested in is you. You're preparing for emergency medicine; that's your goal.”

“Some centers call it trauma medicine, but it's all the same.” Gretchen sipped her wine, watching him.

“What do you figure to pull down a year in a practice like that? In general, based on the doctors you know.”

Gretchen went to the stove and uncovered the saucepan, stirring the contents. Seeming to be content with dinner's progress, she returned to her seat. “Well, Jim Clarkson, he's been there a while, he makes sixty-three a year. For me, when residency is over, something in the mid-forties sounds reasonable in the local market. Why do you ask?”

Dorsey evaded the question. “Suppose there wasn't an opening in the local market. Would you move out of town?”

“I'll answer that question, but that is it.” Gretchen set aside her wine. “You get nothing more without an explanation. First of all, my prospects locally are good. My field of medicine is not the most glamorous or profitable, so the competition is not too steep. But to answer your question, if you need an answer right now, I would relocate, but I don't foresee that happening. So tell me what this is all about.”

“My father's offer, the money.” Dorsey's eyes were downcast.

“I don't follow.”

“Simply put, I don't want to lose you,” Dorsey said. “I don't want you to leave me behind.”

Gretchen, in a show of exasperation and exhaustion, sighed deeply and dug the heels of her hands at her eyes. “Carroll, you know how I feel; I'm in love with you. And
I know you love me, though I'd like to hear you say it more often. When I look at the future you're always in it. But honestly, that's speculation, not prophecy. I plan for a future with you, but there's no guarantee. I can't provide one.”

“Maybe I can.” Dorsey reached across the table for her hand. “That's where the money comes in. With money, with a cushion, you could wait things out. Say there wasn't anything available at a local hospital, you could sit tight until something came around. And later, when you're set up and don't have to rely on packages from home, we could be on common ground financially. Follow what I'm saying?”

“Don't worry about that sort of thing.” Gretchen rose and began to set the table. Silently, she put out flatware and paper napkins, then divided the sausages and sauerkraut between two plates.

“You piss me off,” she said uncharacteristically, speaking through a mouthful of half-chewed food. Angrily, she went on pumping forkfuls into her mouth. “As if I give a damn about the condition of your bank account or how good your prospects are. I don't half-live with a guy ten or eleven years older than I am because I think he belongs to a well-heeled family. I don't want to hear any more.”

Dorsey opened his mouth to speak.

“Not a word,” Gretchen said, pointing with her fork. “Eat. And be quiet.”

They worked their way silently through dinner, avoiding each other's eyes. Dorsey took a fresh beer into the living room while Gretchen changed into shorts and sweatshirt and worked out on the Exercycle. No guarantee, Dorsey thought, sitting on a thinly cushioned sofa as he paged blindly through the evening newspaper. You knew that, Dorsey, that's why you asked the question. And got the only answer possible: no guarantee.

So, don't get one, Dorsey thought, awkwardly folding the paper, unable to return it to its original shape. He clenched his hands behind his neck and stretched, ending
with a rough shrug of his shoulders. You know the rules; never rely on anything or anyone else. How long ago was it that you learned you were strictly on your own? How many times have you been on the stand? They used to slice your balls off before you got smart—back when you would say so-and-so said this, or so-and-so assured me that would happen. Before you learned to check things out for yourself.

Dorsey pushed himself from the couch and went to the room's only window. He heard the Exercycle's timer ring. A moment later came the sounds of Gretchen struggling out of her sweatshirt and shorts as she made her way to the shower. Outside, in the alley below, garbage was piled at the gate of each yard, ready for the next morning's collection. Dorsey drummed his fingers on the windowpane.

So depend on yourself, he thought, and only yourself. Two golden opportunities are looking you in the face, close enough to nip your nose to assure your attention. The investigation has the potential to go somewhere. People are pissed off and striking back, so you must be hitting a nerve. And the stakes are big. Bring in the goods on this one and you've got an automatic reputation. Carroll Dorsey, the guy who cracked Father Jancek and saved a bundle for the insurance company. And most of all, the guy who kicked Jack Stockman's ass. Lots of business and free drinks. Set 'em up for the guy who got all over P.I. Stockman's shit.

And maybe, just maybe, the old man's money wouldn't mean a thing. Who needs it? There'll be plenty of work and opportunity: maybe hire a few assistants, maybe slip into the security guard business. But still, the old man's money could round out things.

Dorsey turned from the window at the sound of Gretchen's footsteps. Dressed in a flannel nightgown, she worked a towel through her hair as she moved across the room. She took him by the hand and led him back to the sofa. Once seated, she rubbed the curls above her left ear, then dropped the towel to the floor.

“So you're worried about us,” she said, folding her hands over his. “Don't be, please. My plan is to be with
you. Plans do change, but only when something unexpected happens. Nothing has happened yet; most likely it never will.”

“I worry sometimes,” Dorsey said. “My day was bad too. I'm disappointed in how things went.”

“Don't be.”

“Got a right to be disappointed.” Dorsey leaned forward and placed his chin in his cupped hands. “I should've been watching for both sides to come after me. I was preoccupied with Hickcock and his cameras. I knew Damjani was crazy; now I know he's long-distance crazy.”

“You said Damjani didn't do it.”

“He didn't. It was the guy in the LTD, most likely.” Dorsey nodded, agreeing with his own theory. “It's the note. Damjani wrote it. He's a psycho. It's a psycho note.”

He got up, stretched, and went to the refrigerator for a fresh beer. On his return he flopped onto the sofa, facing Gretchen.

“So how about you?” he asked. “On the ride over here, even before I opened my mouth, you were pretty surly. Something happen at the hospital?”

“You're not the only one who screwed up today,” Gretchen said. “I had one today myself.”

“I didn't realize.” Dorsey touched her shoulder. “Tell me.”

“A couple of weeks ago, do you remember I told you about a drunk in the ER? One we had to restrain?” Gretchen asked. “He went wild, remember? Something like that happened today.”

Dorsey leaned closer. “You're okay, right? This one didn't knock you around?”

“If only that. No, this was much worse.” She settled farther into the sofa's corner. “The police brought in an older man this afternoon, about three-fifteen. Well dressed with an expensive haircut. One of the officers said they had gotten a call on a drunk and had found him face down on the sidewalk in front of a Market Square bar. The liquor
smell wasn't all that strong, but it was there. Besides, the guy staggered around and spoke gibberish.”

“So he was a drunk.”

“That was my conclusion, but . . .” She pointed into the air for emphasis. “I get the orderlies to take him to detox, and while that's going on one of the cops gives the guy's wallet to the ward clerk to punch his admission into the computer. But just as she's ready to do it, the system goes down. So the orderlies take the man to detox, and I move on to my next adventure.”

“Reasonable,” Dorsey commented. He sipped his beer.

“Perfectly normal procedure.” Gretchen straightened the hem of her nightgown. “Never gave it another thought and never expected I would have to. But about an hour and twenty minutes later, I get a page on my beeper and take the call at the clerk's desk. It was Dr. Costello's secretary. He's head of neurology. She said to stay put; the doctor was on his way to see me.

“I caught hell from him,” Gretchen said. “Really bitched me out. I was in an examining room stitching a butterfly on a man's chin. There was an intern and a nurse and me when he marched in. Dr. Costello is a big, heavy-set guy, and he just threw back the curtain and began shouting. He fumbled through the pages of this textbook he was carrying, and when he found the page he was looking for he stuck the book right under my nose. And then he shouted even louder.”

“What for?” Dorsey asked, his temper kindling. “A doctor, and he acts like that?”

“It turned out he had a right,” Gretchen said. “The drunk was no drunk. His name was Fiedler and he's a patient of Dr. Costello's with a history of TIA's, little strokes. Costello found out he was in the hospital when the computer system came back up. If the system hadn't crashed, we would have had the man's history and all this could have been avoided.”

“But the guy smells like he's in the bag, and he can't string a sentence together.”

“One martini at a business lunch,” Gretchen said. “And the gibberish is called aphasia. His cognitive powers went out for a while and he couldn't process anything from his brain to his mouth. From all accounts, he probably didn't realize himself that anything was wrong. In his case it was Wernicke's aphasia. I know that now because it was on the page Dr. Costello shoved under my nose. What a scene, him screaming and the nurse and the intern trying to slink out of the room.”